Desperation
by alp crim
Summary: War changes even the brightest of people, and you bleed just to know you’re alive. FWHGGW.
1. Prologue

  
**Title:** Desperation.  
**Author:** alp crim. 

**Summary:** War changes even the brightest of people, and you bleed just to know you're alive. FWHGGW.

**Pairing:** Fred / Hermione / George.  
**Rating:** M.

**Genre:** Angst / Tragedy.  
**WARNINGS:** Later smut, probably. Language, violence and death – the usual.  
**Note:** I'm already planning a sequel. And I really, really need a Beta that's also willing and able to act as my Muse – or anything along those lines. Please, people. Anyway, I just had to cure my itch for a FWHGGW story, so here it is. Don't forget, though, I'm still in need of a **BETA AND MUSE**!

-

_You bleed just to know you're alive._

_Iris by Goo Goo Dolls._

-

Hermione idly thumbed through the torn and soot streaked pages of her battered journal, filled to the brim with both idealistic and pragmatic wanderings – all of which were hers. It had been days since the most recent battle, and the Order had lost more fighters than they had predicted.

The appearance of Fenrir Greyback, famed werewolf with an appalling hunger for human blood and flesh, had been most unexpected.

And so, it had begun.

She knew what war looked like – and that hadn't been it.

It had been slaughter, brutal and mindless.

Their side had been unprepared and ill-equipped. Once Remus Lupin – Professor Lupin, as she used to call him – had realized what was going on, it had been too late. Fenrir's pack had flooded them in bevies and hordes, biting and tearing, ripping and shredding through every obstacle they came across.

She could still hear the barbarically cruel growls. The werewolves had howled at their victory, standing tall and bloodstained beside satisfied Death Eaters.

Harry had narrowly avoided getting his throat ripped out, and Ron – brave, daft Ron had tried to take on a group of four werewolves by himself. He had done it to keep them off of Harry, whose glasses had been knocked askew. Not even she could have managed, and she was the better spell caster of the two.

Hermione knew she was going to cry again, even before she felt the familiar stinging behind her eyes. This was the way it worked.

Her friends would die gallantly by hateful hands, and she would grieve – sob until her throat burned – cry until the tears wouldn't come.

Neville.

Luna.

_Ron_.

"I want it to end."

She was startled when she felt a hand alight on her shoulder, rough and calloused and warm. Fred Weasley sat in the dirt beside her. He didn't smile and yet, he didn't remove the large hand settled on her small shoulder. She gave him a simple, cursory nod, and he took it without question.

"Don't we all, 'Mione."

She could've winced at his use of her name. It was what Ron – used to call her. His voice was scratchy, as if he hadn't used it for a long period of time. It wasn't a surprising thing – he and George had become much quieter, more soft-spoken. They kept to themselves. In fact, she hadn't seen him for days.

That is, not since the battle.

"He wasn't even there." His hand tightened on her shoulder, and then it fell away. She flicked her eyes up to his face when he said, "Voldemort."

_I wonder how he feels._

Fred was tracing his finger through the grainy particles of dirt, and it took her only a moment to realize he was writing.

_Crucio._ To torture.

_Sectumsempra._ To bleed.

_Reducto._ To smash.

_Diffindo._ To rip in half.

_Incendio._ To set fire to.

As she watched him inscribe the curses that would cause the most pain – the most agony – she knew instinctively that he intended them for no one but Greyback.

Greyback, who had rent and plundered and killed.

Greyback, who had led his minions to destroy those loved and held dear.

_Is he coping?_

She knew that he wouldn't bother to protect himself. He had even come up with curses she had never heard of – his own, no doubt.

_Lacero._

_Quasso._

_Noceo._

"What are those," she whispered quietly, not really expecting an answer, but curious all the same. When she glanced at him again, Fred wasn't looking at her. He was simply staring at the hexes carved into the dirt, absently scraping a soiled fingernail over the earth.

"'_Lacero'_," he said softly, "mangles. _'Quasso'_ shatters bones. _'Noceo'_ … _'Noceo'_ inflicts endless damage – in reference to your personal thoughts."

"Demonstrate?" She knew he wouldn't.

His eyes skimmed her briefly, and he clambered to his feet. Fred cracked her a humorless smile before he trudged off, back towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest where she knew he would stand sentry with George at his side.

"Maybe another time."

He left her sitting there, knees curled into her chest at the base of a grand dead oak, gazing at the rows of words he'd bequeathed to her.

She knew all but three.

_Lacero._ To mangle.

_Quasso._ To shatter bone.

_Noceo._ A deadlier, more advanced version of _Crucio._

Her mind deviated onto Fred and, coincidentally, George. They had lost their father to an attack on the Ministry months ago. Molly Weasley was slowly but surely driving herself into insanity.

Charlie had been murdered not two weeks after.

_Ron was mauled just four days ago._

The situation had seemed remarkably like Bill's. The one hefty difference gave no one the alternative of overlooking it.

Bill had survived.

Their family was being torn apart, one by one. Bill and Ginny were all they had left, and they were adamant in their part in fighting – just like their father and brothers.

_They won't survive for long._

It wasn't a warning.

It wasn't a questionable statement.

It was fact.

Hagrid, who was immune to magic because of his half-giant blood, had been struck down – not by magic, no. His mother, Fridwulfa, had chosen to side with the opposition, as did many of her kind. She had been the one to kill him, rip him limb from limb and smile maliciously as his blood, thick and heavy, cloaked the battleground.

His own _mother._

_Oh, Hagrid._

So many had died. So many were gone.

_They won't survive._

And neither would she.

But she knew where she would be – she knew where she was needed: at Harry's side, all the way until the end. Through thick and thin – it didn't matter anymore. She knew her place.

Oh, but if she died before the final battle … if she never lived to see Harry kick the living _shit_ out of Voldemort, she would be satisfied with knowing that he would.

Because Harry couldn't fail.

Harry couldn't fail because he was their only hope – a boy of seventeen, barely of age and sustaining the weight of the world on his clearly splintering shoulders.

Harry.

The Boy Who Lived.

The Chosen One.

Harry Potter, fulfiller of Trelawney's damning prophecy.

Harry.

_My best friend._

There were no 'what ifs' or 'buts'. He couldn't fail because she depended on him. Harry couldn't possibly fail, because if he did …

Harry was hope. He gave her hope for the future. He gave her hope for _a_ future.

And so, because she depended on him, Harry couldn't fail. He wouldn't fail.

Because if he did, there would be no consequences to consider. There would be nothing to deliberate on.

There would _be_ nothing.

So why was she so calm, so composed and unruffled?

_Because I know,_ she told herself, refusing to let her companions speak the one truth she herself knew, _that we're fighting a losing battle._

Hermione smiled, a wretched parody of what she used to be.

But then, they already knew that, didn't they.


	2. Avis

**Chapter I:** Avis.

-

_I'd give up forever to touch you._

_Iris by Goo Goo Dolls._

-

_It's been six days since Ron died._

The words inked themselves into the dirt stained pages of her maltreated journal, with only a few close-to-crumbling pages left to fill.

_Remus is looking shabbier every time I lay eyes on him. _

He was dying, and he knew it. One could only take so much Wolfsbane before it began to eradicate the immune system. It allowed him his mind in transformation, but it ate away at his life. It was a sick bargain.

_I'm running out of components for his potion. _

There was only enough to brew one last set, and the area the werewolves had driven them into was much too isolated to request shipment. Hedwig's left wing was torn to shreds. Pigwidgeon had been buried with Ron.

The only other owl – a large tawny – had been eaten by one of Greyback's pack.

_Tonks is in a right state._

The Metamorphagus was unable to change form once again, due to her surfeit of anguish. Her hair had become a dull, sandy brown with dashes of grey.

_She looks like his twin, pale and drawn and listless. She won't leave his side._

Tonks never spoke anymore. They walked together and stood together, hand in hand, fingers firmly interlocked – as if a petty matter such as Fate could ever make them let go.

_Her eyes are unbearable._

They were frank. Tonks wasn't fooling herself anymore, and it chilled her to the bone.

_She smiles, but it's all in preparation for the end._

Ink smudges began to appear on the paper, a hidden hand brushing coarsely over her words. Tearstains tracked down the page, ruining the neat, somewhat loopy inscriptions.

The journal itself seemed to be crying.

_In preparation for the end._

Hermione closed the book and stowed it in a puce pouch. She tugged at the golden drawstrings to close it and, with a silent _Reducio_, hung it around her neck.

"Hermione."

Murphy's Law.

She finished adjusting the collar of her jacket to make sure the necklace, of sorts, wasn't visible. "Remus," she acknowledged without standing to face them, "Tonks."

_I don't want to see the state you're both in. I don't need mirror images._

"We leave tomorrow at dawn." He offered no explanations, nor were they needed. "You're assigned groups," he went on, knowing that she wouldn't speak, "and you're obligated to stick to your team."

More often than not, they traveled as one haggard group. She could see why Remus wanted them to split. Greyback's pack wouldn't be far off, and a large assembly of people was more easily found. The risk of individual clusters, however, was that they were more easily killed.

By the sheer number of the werewolves, Hermione saw it didn't matter. Either way, many would end up losing the struggle, whether the groups be big or small.

"Your number is 3," he said, "Fred and George Weasley. They're at the northern border of the woods. Find them now and stay together." The pair moved on before she could stand, and she was glad.

_Mirror images._

Hermione brought out her wand, balancing it in her palm so that it followed the line of her middle finger. _Point me._ It twiddled and jerked.

Left.

She kept her wand in her hand as she parted prickly bushes and sidestepped a tree, quietly cursing her lack of strength. She was too weak to Apparate properly, and she knew she would end up splinching herself if she tried.

'_It's a right pleasant experience,' Ron groused, his sarcasm undeniably palpable, 'like throwing yourself into an icy lake in winter and losing all feeling in your extremities, it is.'_

She felt the prickling behind her eyes again, but she pushed on nonetheless, ignoring it.

_Neville grinned at her ecstatically, clasping her hands. 'I owe you a dozen Galleons, Hermione! I don't know what I would've done if Snape had actually forced me to drink that dreadful potion.'_

'_Would you like a pair of roaring lion earrings?' Luna smiled at her kindly. 'They'd match your hair and eyes stupendously.'_

She missed their voices, their eyes, their overall _presence._

_Ron looked from Harry to Ginny with something akin to horror blossoming in his eyes. Then, he jerked his head, a discomfited expression on his freckled face as he turned away and muttered, 'Well – if you must.'_

_Neville's snores echoed loudly throughout the common room, and he sat slumped in the chair in front of the fireplace, his Herbology text sprawled open on his stomach. 'Trevor,' he mumbled to himself, shaking his head fitfully, 'Trevor, sto' runnin' away …'_

_Luna tugged a lime green dress that strangely resembled a pine tree out from a satchel tied to her waist and held it out in front of her. 'Isn't it lovely, Hermione? It'll be perfect for the Yule Ball,' she said, twirling through the library like a princess from a Muggle faerie tale._

She had never scrounged up the courage to tell Luna the gown had made her look like an unnaturally fluorescent Christmas tree.

_I want them back._

Her fists clenched almost painfully as she thrust herself into the clearing where Fred and George should have been. _Stop thinking about it,_ she commanded herself. _Just stop._

It would do her no good. _They're not coming back._

Suddenly, a twig snapped behind her, and she instantly pirouetted. _Incarcerous!_

"_Expelliarmus._"

Her wand flew out of her hand, even as she struggled to keep hold of it. Fred stared at her impassively, but Hermione could have sworn she saw his mouth twitch. He cast a sidelong glance at George, who grunted in annoyance from the forest floor, although he wasn't wrestling against his bindings.

_Finite Incantatem._ Harry had taught her wandless magic ages ago. The ropes dissolved, and George stood, rubbing at his wrists. She caught her wand when Fred tossed it back to her and stuffed it into her jacket sleeve. "Bit twitchy, aren't you," George remarked indifferently. He stooped to retrieve his own wand and, with a simple flick, the rope burns on his bared skin vanished.

She shrugged, an apology on the tip of her tongue. However, George, in the midst of dusting himself off, spoke before she could. "Remus tell you to find us, then?"

She nodded. Fred had already turned away, and George was beginning to. Hermione didn't know what impulse seized her – perhaps she needed companionship, or maybe she just needed to _speak_ – but she called out.

Anything to keep them near.

"Have you got any newly developed hexes?"

They both stopped, and she saw George slant Fred a possibly questioning look. When the latter didn't reply, George beckoned to her with a slight tilt of his head. As she followed his twin, Fred ducked behind a copse of trees and disappeared from view. Straining her ears to listen, she found, with a jolt, that all she could hear were her own soft footfalls.

George moved soundlessly. She imagined Fred did the same.

"I –"

"Which do you know?" he interrupted, abruptly slowing his pace as they entered a small ring of trees. To the far left, a fair stream trickled through, and there was even a bit of dappled sunlight streaming through the canopy. George came to a stop in the middle of it all.

"'_Lacero'_, _'Quasso'_, and _'Noceo'_."

"He taught you _'Noceo'_?" There was something strange in his expression – something she couldn't place. It should have scared her a bit, put her on her guard, but it didn't. It was something almost feral, but not quite. It was just … _wild_. George didn't give her a chance to answer.

"Draw your wand."

"Are you going to give me a demonstration?"

He paused and, tipping his head, appraised her. _There._ There it was again – wild. Hungry. _Fierce._ And then, it was gone.

"If you want." He almost sounded appreciative – approving. George weaved the tip of his wand through the air, spelling out jagged, flame-colored letters.

_Praefoco._ "Cuts off air supply."

_Praecido._ "Lops off the limb you direct your wand at."

He sounded so blasé about it all, as if the spells were harmless little charms. _Avis_ to conjure birds, _Ferula_ to bring about a splint and bandages.

_Incurvo._ "Makes every joint in the body bend the opposite way."

_Expelliviscus._

George caught her eye. "_Expelliviscus_," he said in a muted voice, "is the Entrail-Expelling Curse invented by Urquhart Rackharrow in the 1700's."

She held his gaze even as she fought not to choke on air. _Expelliviscus._

'_Hey, Hermione,' George called from the other end of the hall, 'wait up, will you? We've got a bit of a favor to ask.' Fred strode next to him, an amiable smile on his handsome face. _

She had looked upon them with suspicion – the troublemakers, pranksters and rabble-rousers of Hogwarts asking _her_ help? _Bollocks._

'_Could you, perhaps, lend us your pass to the Restricted section? We'll have it back in a mo',' Fred added, 'promise.' _

George saw the realization in her eyes, and she saw, in turn, the flicker of his old self. "Got you good, didn't we," he stated lightly, a crooked half-smile playing on the edge of his chapped lips.

"Yeah," she agreed softly. "You didn't return it for a week."

So this was why they had needed her pass. _Expelliviscus._ Pince wouldn't have let them in otherwise, and she would have known the second they tried to hand her a forged teacher's note. Had they brewed Polyjuice Potion?

No. Back then, their patience wouldn't have lasted.

"You transfigured yourself to look like me." It was the only other way, although it would have taken a profuse amount of magic and a surplus of excruciating concentration.

"Clever girl."

They had needed her pass because of Pince's magical insignia. The vulture had made sure to sign every pass with her wand, solely for the easy identification of a fake.

"This is what you were up to." She motioned to the letters hovering in the air between them.

_Expelliviscus._

The incantation wouldn't leave her alone.

_The Entrail-Expelling Curse. I didn't know it had been recorded._

"Yeah." He wasted no time in summoning a flock of large, yellow birds, and she knew he would give her the demonstration she had asked for.

Seven birds. One for each curse.

What she hadn't anticipated was for him to give her a gentle look. She hadn't expected him to ask her, "Are you sure about this?"

George Weasley.

Trickster.

Fred's twin.

_Compassionate._

She had always seen him and Fred as Ron's older brothers – Hogwarts's charlatans.

"I'm sure." Even as she spoke, the words sounded far away, as if someone else was speaking.

He gave her a faint nod and swished his wand towards the nearest bird. "_Lacero._"

Hermione bit her lip until blood coated her mouth.


End file.
